


Situation: Normal

by redcigar



Series: All's fair in [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Winter Soldier woos Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier/Steve Rogers - Freeform, complete and utter faffing about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU wherein Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers never met, Steve somehow manages to rescue the Winter Soldier anyway, and Avengers Tower ends up with the world’s angriest duckling and a whole new brand of entertainment.</p><p>-</p><p>(“He was dragging him out of the river,” Natasha argues later.</p><p>“Nat, be honest, he was going for the Full Monty.” Says Clint. </p><p>“I’m pretty sure we interrupted him in the middle of giving ‘emergency CPR’,” Tony agrees, “Or the stage after emergency CPR. Emergency Dick? Is that a thing?”</p><p>“That’s not a thing,” Natasha and Clint reply.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Situation: Normal

“You know, I don’t remember The Ugly Duckling having so much murder last time I read it,” Tony opines, face smashed up against the glass and green smoothie dripping sadly down the leg of his trousers. “You’re paying for dry-cleaning, by the way.”

 

“You’ve never read The Ugly Duckling,” Natasha responds peacefully. He can hear the smooth flick of her magazine even all the way over by the window where he was nearing third base with his own reflection.

 

“You don’t know that. I mean, you’re _right_ , but you don’t know that.”

 

“Besides,” she interjects, “that would make Hydra the beautiful swans, right? So, none of that metaphor really makes sense.”

 

“To be honest I was really relying on the ‘duckling’ part to carry me through,” Tony admits, “I was hoping the mental image of small, fluffy animals would get Terminator’s hand out of my throat. Which, also, any help would, you know. Be appreciated. Not to push. I’m not pushing.”

 

The Winter Soldier, on the other hand, continues to gently push.

 

“Okay, painful bordering on excruciating. Okay. Natasha? Please? Your hair looks lovely this morning?”

 

“Oh, _hey_ ,” a new voice interrupts, and Tony’s knees go out from under him with relief when the weight from the back of his neck suddenly disappears. He melts against the window, the cityscape winking back at him through the glass, and sags gratefully onto his back.

 

“Cap! What timing, as usual. Please tell Fido to _exnay_ on the _urdermay_ , would you? There’s a doll.”

 

Tony likes to throw out the old-timey slang sometimes, just to annoy Steve, but he can be forgiven for forgetting who else it annoys, because he is reasonably certain the Soldier has cut off a large amount of oxygen to his brain. In any case, at the d-word the hulking mass of black leather and Kevlar above him makes a low, mean grunt, and Tony remembers exactly what got him slammed up against the glass in the first place. The Soldier takes a step closer. Tony squeaks.

 

At the doorway, in his finest sweatpants and under-armour, Captain America looks sadly at the scene and sighs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

To cut a long-story short – although, it was pretty short for Steve, because he was unconscious for most of it – apparently appealing to the Winter Soldier’s humanity for a long, drawn out period, the general collapse of SHIELD’S Hydra faction around their ears, and Steve’s general refusal to fight back against what he insisted was just another of Hydra’s many victims, resulted in the remaining, scattered Avengers gathered on the bank of the Potomac in a semi-circle, muttering between themselves and eyeing off what had summarily been titled: the Situation.

 

The Situation was thus:

 

One: Unconscious Captain America, looking as heroic as a passed out bloodied punching bag could look when it stunk of river water and blood.

 

And

 

One: Winter Soldier, hunched protectively over his body, metal arm hanging at an odd angle and deep blue eyes fixed on the approaching group. His flesh and blood hand is wound up deep in the torn fabric of Steve’s upper armour. Some pink, All-American skin is showing.

 

(“He was dragging him out of the river,” Natasha argues later.

 

“Nat, be honest, he was going for the Full Monty.” Says Clint.

 

“I’m pretty sure we interrupted him in the middle of giving ‘emergency CPR’,” Tony agrees, “Or the stage after emergency CPR. Emergency Dick? Is that a thing?”

 

“That’s not a thing,” Natasha and Clint reply.)

 

On the bank of the Potomac, Natasha narrows her eyes and barks something in Russian. The Winter Soldier flinches – towards Steve, rather than away – and slams his useless metal arm into the mud next to Steve’s face, hiding it from view. He snarls something back. Natasha hums. The Winter Soldier glares.

 

“I am understanding all of this,” Sam points out clearly, “I am completely up-to-date. Just like everyone else is, yeah?”

 

“Oh, totally.” Clint says, and then, “actually, that last big _bang_ in the helicarrier took out my hearing aids. Is Nat speaking another language or did that metal beam hit me harder than I thought?”

 

“Russian.” Sam says morosely.

 

“Oh, nice,” Clint replies smoothly, and then turning back to the scene, shouts, “Nat! Tell him he’s a dick!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In summary, Steve wakes in hospital with Sam (“On your left.”) and the Winter Soldier (“On your _right_ , holy shit, Steve, he hasn’t moved a muscle. I don’t think he’s blinked. Has he blinked? Was that a blink? Do you think only super-soldiers can see when he blinks? I want you to tell me if he blinks.”).

 

“Oh,” Steve croaks, hair mussed back and baby-blues still a little foggy, lips dry from the parched hospital air conditioning. “Hey, soldier. You made it.”

 

He smiles weakly.

 

The Winter Soldier’s eyes narrow in on Steve’s lips. He looks vaguely hunted.

 

Sam shouts for the nurse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

So the Soldier doesn’t speak English, exactly.

 

Steve moves into Avengers Tower (“Just for a short time, Tony, so I can keep an eye on him in a secured – _stop smirking like that_.”), because the Soldier needs to be under surveillance for pretty much 24/7 while the remainder of SHIELD finish crying in the corner and the government pick what was left of the helicarrier and Hydra’s hopes and dreams out of the Potomac and like, half of DC. He has his own floor, just like the rest of their rag-tag group, although Clint and Natasha’s are left empty most of the year around while they run around Europe or North Africa or wherever it was they were sent to blow things up this time. Sam was offered a floor too, after Tony gave his battered wings a rudimentary glance and muttered: “ _Lame._ We can do _so_ much better, birdbrain.” And Sam looked simultaneously like all his Christmas’ had come early and that he’d just discovered Santa was a lie.

 

Steve’s floor is outfitted in lots of framed vintage posters, incentives for war bonds and old theatre runs, and he would complain except the art style appealed to him just as much now as they did in the old days, when he would huddle under theatre awnings and gape at the glistening painted dancers and performers, yellow bulbs overhead casting a halo over the dripping crowds.

 

The Soldier doesn’t seem to mind them either.

 

Given that the Soldier seems to think the floor is his, as well.

 

Steve doesn’t really stamp anything personal on the space, after all. All his memorabilia and other private belongings are hidden away safely in his bedroom, even under his bed. The most he dares to leave in the communal living room is the occasional sketchbook or half-finished Readers Digest, and one time, even a hand-written response to some kid in Arkansas that Clint In No Way Whatsoever scanned over with soft eyes and a wry tilt to his mouth, and then told absolutely no one about.

 

The Soldier, though. The Soldier doesn’t have any personal items, as such. Nothing before the helicarrier, anyway. Afterwards he collects things. Shiny things, mostly. Shiny _weapons_ , mostly. A nice kitchen knife he saw Sam using in the communal floor kitchen. One of Pepper’s earrings. A whole basket of discarded screws from Tony’s workshops, ranging from silver to slate to bronze. The only thing of substance he actually went out and purchased for himself – Natasha at his side and Clint and Sam tailing from a distance – was a small snow-globe from some kitschy hole-in-the-wall tourist spot.

 

He arrived back at the Tower, the Avengers all breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of screams or explosions in his wake, and planted the snow globe squarely in front of Steve, who was reading the back of his cereal box with the expression of a man on a mission.

 

“Oh,” Steve had said, very carefully, “is that, uh, is that for me?”

 

The Soldier nods curtly. He had washed his hair that morning, and Sam had helped him shave. He still retained a weakness for leather and thick coats, however, so looked approximately as friendly as an angry snake in a bag made of other snakes.

 

“Oh,” Steve said again, slowly reaching out for the globe, “it’s, uh, it’s nice. Thank you, soldier.” And then he winced, because he’d been trying for days to wean a name out of the other man, and so far so not-good, but the sentiment remained.

 

At any rate, his reaction seemed to please the Soldier, as his square jaw lit up with a self-satisfied smirk, and he plonked himself on the chair next to Steve, before shoving it all the way alongside his. The stool screeched against the kitchen tiles loud enough to make Clint wince, until they were pressed side-to-side, thigh-to-thigh, and Steve’s cheeks were flaring a bright hot pink.

 

“Right,” he had said, again picking his way through his words like he was navigating a mine field, “that’s, uh, that’s real swell of you, buddy. Thanks.”

 

“ _Wow_.” Tony stressed from across the room.

 

* * *

 

 

“I think we should talk about this,” Tony stresses, from across the room.

 

Natasha barely glances up from her magazine.

 

Steve and the Soldier had departed minutes before. Or, rather. Steve had left, and the Soldier had followed hot on his heels. Literally, almost on his heels. Tony thinks he saw Cap stumble. The Soldier’s automatic grab at his belt to keep his standing could _maybe_ be misconstrued as a basic courtesy if Tony was a _goddamn moron idiot_.

 

He wasn’t. An idiot. Not about _this_ , at least. Well, at other things --

 

“This,” Tony continues, nevertheless, “being The Situation.”

 

“The Situation seems to be doing pretty okay, all things considered.” She muses.

 

“The Situation just tried to rip my spinal cord out because I happened to mention how many favours Cap’s updated wardrobe has been doing for his ass.”

 

“You’re all welcome,” Natasha says warmly, still looking as if she was almost on the cusp of being interested but just couldn’t quite find the energy to get there.

 

“Don’t deflect.”

 

“You’re the one who mentioned his ass.”

 

“And Popsicle Numero Dos is the one who went berserk on me, so I think that warrants some shred of a reaction, don’t you?”

 

“Why does this bother you so much?” Natasha finally glances up with a smirk that implies she already knew the answer.

 

“It _bothers me_ ,” Tony hisses, “because apparently I’m the only one who thinks an ex-brainwashed, somewhat-mute Russian-American assassin trying to crawl into Captain America’s pants so he can _live there_ is somewhat suspicious!”

 

“You think,” Natasha begins slowly, “That the Winter Soldier, the most famed assassin of the past fifty years, has been given a new mission prerogative of seducing Captain America into bed, in order to… what, exactly? Kill him? And he couldn’t do that on the helicarrier? The Potomac? That time the fire alarm went off because you tried to make poptarts from scratch at four A.M. and Steve charged into the lobby in his tighty-whities?”

 

 “What has that last one got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I just like remembering it, that’s all.”

 

“Well when you list it like that it does sound sort of--”

 

“—delusional, paranoid—”

 

“ _Irrational_. So what, are we seriously just going to go with the flow that the Winter Soldier met the only other nonagenarian super-soldier in the world and decided he wanted to bone him for the rest of eternity?”

 

“I punched an alien last year.” Natasha points out. “In its _third row of teeth_. With a _magical staff_.”

 

“Yeah, I know, you set the news reel as my desktop for like, three weeks.”

 

“You loved it.”

 

“Of course I did, it was badass and unfairly hot,” Tony grumps, “but that’s beside the point, what if Cap doesn’t _want_ to lose the Cold War.”

 

Natasha pauses.

 

“That one,” she decides, “that’s much better than the Ugly Duckling metaphor.”

 

Tony is saved from interrupting when a security feed pops up on the kitchen tablet, and Jarvis coolly informs him that: “Sir, the Winter Soldier appears to be attempting to access the security panel to Captain Rogers’ bathroom again.”

 

“Oh, God damn it,” Tony snaps, lunging for the com, “MAN, QUIT IT.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Man,” Sam says, warily eyeing the third occupant of the room as Steve calmly serves him pancake upon pancake upon pancake. Super-soldier metabolism. It’s a hell of a thing. “Man, this doesn’t bother you at all?”

 

Steve shrugs, but Sam’s not an idiot. Every time the Winter Soldier circles the room – which is at least once every ten minutes, circling the kitchen island and brushing against Steve back as he grabs himself more pancakes and squints sideways at Sam – Steve goes a little red and flustered, throws him embarrassed, apologetic smiles and shuffles to make way for the Soldier. Every. Time.

 

“He’s recuperating, Sam,” Steve protests. “It’s gonna take him some time to be… comfortable, around people, that’s all. He’ll warm up to you eventually.”

 

“That is so beyond what I’m talking about it’s not funny,” Sam swears, “I’m not shedding any tears about my lack of friendship bracelets over here, Steve. I am however worried that you’re gonna wake up one night with this guy trying to tie you both together and—”

 

“ _Sam_!” Steve hisses, “He can _hear_ you! And it ‘aint like that, okay? He just trusts me, that’s all. And I trust him. And I wanna take care of him, you know? When I first came to the future, I had to readjust all on my own. And now he has to do it as well as shake off a hell of a lot of mental conditioning, so the more comfortable he is while that happens the better. And if being comfortable means being close to me than that’s fine by me, okay? It’s not like I don’t mind the company, and he ‘aint so bad. He’s not. So--”

 

“Oh my god,” Sam says, staring, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh my god.”

 

“Shut up, okay,” Steve is red to his ears, and throws his head in his hands. “I know okay? It’s a mess, I’m a mess. Oh my god.”

 

“You’re such a mess,” Sam agrees solemnly, “but also: _I think he’s smelling your hair_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t speak English. He does, however, speak a hell of a lot of Russian, and most of it is directed at Natasha. She blinks impassively whenever he goes on a growling, spitting tirade (although that might just be Russian, Tony tries to reason), and when he’s finished she usually nods complacently or replies in short, curt words. However brief her response, it usually mollifies the other assassin enough that he goes back to moodily poking at his breakfast, or moodily punching a bag, or moodily cleaning his knives. He does a lot of things moodily, is what Tony is saying, and unfairly enough it somehow makes him more attractive. Tony maybe needs to quit while he’s ahead. Tony maybe hasn’t slept in three days. Pepper is maybe threatening to strap Tony down to his bed to get some _sleep_ –

 

“What does he even _say_ ,” he whines one morning, after the Soldier storms out in pursuit of He of the Patriotic Ass, and Clint is pouring coffee into his cereal by mistake. Nobody mentions it.

 

Natasha smiles like a shark.

 

“Do you _really_ want to know?” She purrs.

 

Tony narrows his eyes.

 

“Blue balls.” Clint says finally, eyes barely open. “Huge ones.”

 

He sticks his spoon in his mouth. Freezes.

 

Says, “Aw, gross,” so sadly that even Natasha seems upset.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Then Thor arrives, and everything goes to shit.

 

“Ah, Soldier of Winter,” he greets solemnly, slapping a hand on the guy’s shoulder and not even wincing when his rings clack against the metal arm, “much have I heard of your exploits.”

 

The Soldier squints at Thor. The Soldier does a lot of squinting in general, but this is his least hostile of squinting.

 

“Indeed, I have also heard that you are quite set on courting our Steven!” And every person – _every person_ – shoots a look at Clint, who suddenly finds the pizza he is eating very interesting. Or maybe that’s just Clint. Steve has gone an amazingly, horridly bright shade of red. Huh. Blue shirt, Tony muses. Red white and blue. “Truly, a worthy shield mate! I support your endeavour, Soldier, and will aid you in your quest.”

 

The Soldier’s lips tilt in an approximation of a smile.

 

“Thor,” Steve blusters, squirming in his seat. “C’mon, man, he’s just joking around--”

 

The Soldier shoots him such a heady, deep look that Steve falls abruptly quiet, and Sam chokes on his drink.

 

“That is not the look of a joker, Steve, Steve are you listening to me right now, Steve, _oh my god--_ ”

 

Thor, on the other hand, just booms with laughter.

 

“Very good! And what shall I call you, friend of the Avengers?”

 

Almost at once everyone goes to mutter an explanation about memories, brainwashing, conditioning and all that mess. But the Soldier just blinks, blinks again, frowns at the ground like something’s bothered him, and says:

 

“Oh, James.”

Everyone goes quiet, and then the Soldier – no, _James_ – zeroes in on Tony like a warhead, glares, and adds:

 

“And _don’t_ call him doll.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A week later and Steve arrives late to breakfast. He looks flustered and ill put-together. His shirt is untucked, his trousers creased, and he looks like he’s been sweating buckets. Natasha chews on her oatmeal slowly, blue eyes travelling down his body like she’s reading a newspaper. Tony covets her poker face.

 

“Oh, hi everyone,” _Captain America the goddamn national icon_ gasps, “You’re all… here. This morning. Today. At once.”

 

“We sure are,” Tony says, coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. “Funny how things sort of… come together. At the same time. Like that.”

 

Across the table, Pepper looks up from her tablet with icy murder in her eyes.

 

Steve looks like he’s about to set on fire from sheer embarrassment.

 

Which is of course when James walks into the room, whistling, takes one look at Steve, stops whistling, and pushes him out of it again. The Assembled!Avengers manage to hear a snippet of Steve whining: “Aw c’mon, I’m _hungry--_ ” Before the elevator hisses shut.

 

“A true match,” Thor says warmly, hoarding waffles like he’s going to take them back to Asgard in a suitcase.

 

“Shit,” Clint says, and when Tony glances over, he’s poured coffee in his cereal again. “ _Man_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Life goes on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

The Winter – _James_ , lifts Steve’s underarmour off, flicks his pale eyes across Steve’s chest – already pink from blushing, Sam was going to laugh for _days_ – and nodded shortly like he’d just proved some sort of point. Point.

 

 _Points_. Steve restrains from looking down and does anyway, flushing hard.

 

“This has maybe gotten out of hand,” he admits breathlessly.

 

“I’ll show _you_ a hand,” James grumps.

 

And he sort of does.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I realise I am not a funny person, but I kept day-dreaming about this sort of situation and could find NO FIC FOR IT, so had to write my own.
> 
> 2) contd. I cannot write fic that is angsty. I think I am? Physically incapable? Listen don't go into this fic with any expectations is what I am saying this is 100% an excuse for nonsense and makes no canonical sense. 
> 
> 3) I have been crying about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes for like, four weeks. They need all the crackfic they can get. 
> 
> 4) I did not even vaguely attempt to write out that Russian. I can motion vaguely at Japanese, grope French a little, poke German in the cheek, and read Latin fluently. But Russian is a nocando. I didn't want to mess that up. 
> 
> 5) Listen everyone hit me up with them Stucky crack fics, ya feel.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Situation Normal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982959) by [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight)




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